The Aftershow
by freudian fuckup
Summary: James and Sirius are throwing a party, but for the life of him, Remus can't help but look beneath the booze and the debauchery and wish to god that absolutely any of it felt real.


**Reviewing improves your karma... or something. **

**---**

Remus finds it amazing the things the unstoppable duo get up to. James and Sirius are a force of nature, fueled by ego and hormones and an apparently never-ending supply of liquor. There is simply no reasoning with them when they get like this, so Remus takes the next best option- a large glass of firewhiskey and a quiet corner. Not a fool-proof solution by any means, especially once the others are well and truly pissed, but that's hours away, and for now it's safe.

Tonight, it's because Gryffindor's won the quidditch cup, that's the excuse, the party line. Naturally everyone wearing red is over the moon and back, and half dozen Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are there because Slytherin lost, which is cause for celebration too, apparently. The four or five Slytherin girls hanging around are there to console themselves, Remus supposes. They're all fairly good looking though, so he doubts they'll be consoling alone.

---

By ten, everyone's good and liquored up. Someone's playing music and Sirius is snogging his way through the sixth and seventh years. James is chatting up Evans again, but by the looks she's throwing him, he's getting no where, as per usual. Remus finds a sofa on the outskirts of the festivities and settles in with some foul concoction Sirius presented him with.

"Oh gods, what is this?" Remus had asked, spitting whatever-the-fuck back into his glass.

"My own _special_ mixture," Sirius replied with a mysterious look.

"It tastes like whiskey and sick!"

"No need to be rude. Besides, not mixed for _taste_, now is it?"

"It's a drink! What in the hell else would you mix it for?"

"Ah, good question Moons. Padfoot, would you prefer to do the honors?" said James, wiping away something from his cheek, remarkably similar in color to Evans' lipstick.

"Best you tell him mate, believe I espy a young damsel in need of aid."

"She looks like she's about to take her top off!" Remus shot back incredulously.

"And_chivalry_ requires I rescue her from the imprisonment of her garments," and Sirius was gone.

"Prongs, tell me what I'm drinking or I'll have none of it."

"Our dear Padfoot believes he has managed to infuse your basic Firewhiskey with an aphrodisiac and a stamina potion. Mind you, that does defy the actual _nature_ of Firewhiskey, but it makes him feel terribly _clever_, so I haven't the heart to tell him," said James with a grin.

"Oh Jesus, James, nothing about the phrase _drunken raging hard-on_ appeals to me in the least. Where's the _un_tainted liquor?"

"Isn't any, mate. Sirius spiked it all. Figures it's no good to be drunk and horny if the girls aren't as well. Not terribly ethical, but effective," James said matter-of-factly. "But honestly, Padfoot's shite at potions anyway, you oughta be more worried about it turning you purple than getting you randy."

---

By eleven, Peter's disappeared with some bit of skirt after making quite a show of sneaking off. Evans is gone, but James' has found comfort in several glasses of ale and a group of fawning fourth years, eagerly listening to his greatest quidditch tales. Sirius's shirt is missing several buttons and he's settled into a chair with a girl on either knee. Remus has gone through two of Sirius's "special" whiskies, and is nursing a third, if only to drown out the noise.

Some nights he has company in his corner- a random girl of unknown house, randy or just bored, and apparently desperate. Castoffs, no doubt. But Remus is cordial, considerate. He knows they'd rather be snogging James or screwing Sirius, but there's nothing for it. They're nameless, faceless in the haze of alcohol, and they probably haven't a clue whose hands are up their blouses or whose trousers they're undoing.

Tonight it's a Hufflepuff, he thinks. The tie he's undoing is a faded yellowy fabric, and the girl is gasping rather more than the situation warrants. Yes, definitely a Hufflepuff. Not that he minds. She's got her legs on either side of Remus's and he's pinned to the couch, but with the amount of alcohol in his system, he very much doubts he could stand anyway. His fingers are caught in her hair, but doesn't seem to notice.

She's freeing Remus's shirt from his trousers and her hand slides past the waistband without struggle. He worries he's lost weight for his trousers to be so loose, but there are more pressing things to worry about, like what he's going to tell her when she gets a hold of him and realizes he's not nearly as interested as he ought to be. But apparently he is, thank the gods.

There's a tongue in Remus's mouth, and it tastes like vodka and fruit, and the lips on his are slightly sticky and cool, but he wishes they were fuller, warmer, wetter, not _hers_. Not that there's any good in wishing. She has a hand around his cock, and it's miraculously hard, and well, it doesn't feel_terrible_ to be honest. He's biting her neck, and she's thrown her head back, but it all rings a little false.

The noises she's making sound like an imitation of passion, and the wet lines Remus is tracing along her collarbone are more precise, scientific than they should be. No matter. She's not bad, and her hand is squeezing just so and _oh fuck_ she's doing something fantastic with her fingertips that _really_ doesn't feel bad at all. He wonders where the hell she learned_that_, but it's not hard to guess who she's practiced on. Remus figures he ought to be doing _something_ with his hands, something to her, but he can't really feel his fingers and whatever she's doing is pretty damn nice. All at once, he really wishes she'd just undo his trousers and suck him off proper- not that he'd _ever_ say as much.

She kisses along his jaw-line, and Remus wants to tell her to just finish and get the fuck out, but that sounds like something James would say, so he bites his tongue- no, her tongue, and thrusts into her hand a little harder. Her arse starts to slide off his lap, and for a moment he wants to let her fall onto the floor, but no, that's the kind of thing Sirius would do for a laugh, so Remus just grabs her arse, hard, and pulls her back towards him. She mistakes it for enthusiasm, and kisses him harder, which is the exact goddamn _opposite_ of what he wanted, but no matter.

Soon enough, Remus feels his balls contract and he's coming, filling the anonymous girl's palm with hot, sticky fluid. He lets his head fall back against the couch and sighs audibly as she kisses his throat and works his cock until it gives out. Any second now, she's going to want him to reciprocate, and he will, because it's common courtesy and because he's a decent bloke, if not because he wants to. He wonders whether James and Sirius want to.

Apparently not, because the Ravenclaw standing over James doesn't look terribly sated. James on the other hand is slumped against an armchair with his trousers rumpled, his hair mussed, and his eyes unfocused in a distinctly post-coital way. Remus wonders where James' glasses have gotten to, and then wonders just why the fuck he should be thinking about such a thing while he's got a lap full of girl.

Oh fuck, he hasn't. She's already moved over and is fussing with her hair very quickly and clumsily and without meeting Remus's eye. A flush rises in her cheeks and she's got her jumper in her hand as she gets off the couch. Remus really wants to say something. He wants to call her back and say something polite and comforting, and hell, he'll get her off too if it'll make her look less disgusted with herself, but nothing comes to mind and then she's disappeared into the crowd.

_And why _shouldn't_ she look horrified?_ Remus wonders, nearly aloud. He's a freak and a terror and then he has to remind himself she couldn't _possibly_ know any of that, but somehow that just makes it worse.

It's not much of a crowd at this point. Just a couple of birds with cocktails making a spectacle of themselves and a few seconds years ogling them like they've stumbled upon Valhalla. James's tucked his shirt back in and is looking about for the next thing to do. He's always ready for the next adventure, the next conquest, and Remus finds it very tiring.

Sirius reappears from fuck knows where with his shirt half-unbuttoned and covered in lipstick. Without a word, he's in James' lap, and they're snogging with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Oh_Padfoot_, yes!" James moans eagerly.

"Such a saucy little harlot. _Harder_, you minx!" Sirius gleefully returns.

A crowd of students, maybe fifteen in all, encircle them, laughing and cheering them on. Remus doesn't bother getting up, he's seen this show too many times- he's memorized all the lines.

"_Fuck_, Prongs. Faster, _faster_!"

"Oh gods, yes! Right there, buggering hell," gasps James, throwing his head back and grinding against Sirius rather obscenely.

Sirius speeds up, kneading James' arse closer, thrusting against him frantically and sucking on James' neck. The crowd starts shouting suggestions- _just shag already, you two!_ and _suck him off!_, but the couple are far too engrossed in their performance to notice. Besides, the choreography is set and there can be no improvising.

"Oh, so hot, you little trollop. My little whore," Sirius cries.

"Gods yes, yes! I'm your slut I'm- _oh_.Oooohhhh," James whines in a girlish voice.

Remus knows what comes next, and he looks away as Sirius starts to come. They're really giving it their all. Some nights it's more mechanical, less passionate- but tonight they've hit their stride and are going at it full force. The onlookers laugh, clutching their sides and applauding, and Remus wonders if they would still approve if they knew that Sirius was, in all likelihood, _actually_ getting off. Remus bets he's the only one that can tell the difference. Well, he and James.

Then it's over. They go limp on the carpet, legs still entwined, and Sirius pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with his wand. The audience disperses, back to their respective groups, and Remus sees the performers take turns blowing lazy smoke rings, like they haven't a care in the world.

Remus watches all this intently, but none of it sinks in. It's all so bloody fake and the Firewhiskey acts like a deflection spell. Sometimes it's comforting to know that in the morning nothing will have changed. To realize that it's an elaborate show they all put on, and they are _damn_ good actors. But other times Remus gets an icky hollow feeling in his stomach that no amount of liquor can fill. The inconsequential becomes overwhelming and sometimes he wants something to just fucking_matter_.

The room spins and Remus drifts along, no more a part of the scene than the portraits on the walls.

---

By two, the lights are out and the fire is flickering. Silencing spells go up all around as sixth and seventh years alike pair off. Remus sees a Slytherin girl dragging off one of the Gryffindor seventh-years and very nearly laughs. In real life, it would never happen. But the Slytherin girl has fantastic tits and the seventh year is drunk, so happen it does.

There are maybe six couples in all, and Remus scans the dark silhouettes looking for the familiar outline of tousled hair and quidditch muscles. Ah, there they are. They're stretched out in the corner across the room. Sirius is on top and they're grinding against one another, just like they did on the carpet earlier, but there's nothing funny about it. Not this time, not ever.

In fact, it's nothing like it was earlier. The performance they put on for their peers was like an absurd, comical caricature of what is happening before Remus's eyes. Only Remus's eyes. This is real. It's sloppy and intense and wet and subtle and _real_. Remus stands up and swoons dangerously. The floor tilts, but he puts one foot in front of the other until he's a few feet from The Marauders Private Exhibition.

Sirius looks up. For a terrifying moment, Remus thinks that Sirius is going to tell him to bugger off, or worse, that Sirius will leave. But neither happens, and soon Remus is invisible again. James is making soft, whimpering sounds through parted, full, wet lips and Remus feels his own cock stirring. They're both sweaty and Remus can smell the booze on them from where he stands, or perhaps that's his own breath he's smelling.

Sirius slides a hand between their bodies and James gasps loudly. All Remus can see is James' face and the back of Sirius's hair, and it's easy enough to pretend that Sirius doesn't exist, that he's a clever illusion. And why the fuck not? Nothing else is real.

James' eyes slam shut and his head falls back against the wall. Sirius is moving faster now, the muscles in his back flexing beneath his thin white shirt. The noises they're making are stifled and short, and with every grunt, Remus feels his own cock grow harder. Soon it's straining painfully against his trousers and Remus decides he simply doesn't give a damn. In one motion his belt is undone and he has his erection in the palm of his hand. Without hesitation or ceremony, he starts pumping furiously, watching James' features twitch and writhe beneath Sirius's assault. There is nothing gentle or civil about them, and Remus wishes to god he could be like that—so unreserved, uninhibited.

But he's not, and before he can work up the nerve to come, Sirius beats him to it. With a shudder and a loud groan, he comes and it's all fucking over the place. It's the silent rule that everyone comes but clothes don't come off. It's sanitary and keeps the house elves from getting suspicious when they clean up. Not that Sirius was ever good at rules.

James doesn't seem bothered though, in fact, before Sirius gets up, James leans in and kisses him—not a silly, drunken peck, but a cautious, lingering, hungry kiss. And it strikes Remus as odd, none of them being particularly prone to affection, but there's something lovely and vulnerable in James' eyes when he does it.

After a moment, Sirius does up his pants and stumbles off into the darkness, in the direction of the dormitory. Remus watches after him, and is unsurprised to see him delayed at the foot of the stair by a waiting Hufflepuff. _Remus's_ Hufflepuff, come to mention it. Remus chuckles quietly, remarkably unaffected. The girl's arms wind around Sirius's neck, and they tumble onto the stairway in a sloppy, booze-soaked heap. From the look of it, the whiskey really _was_ an aphrodisiac.

"Evening, sweetheart," whispers a voice in Remus's ear. "What's a pretty little thing like yourself doing out all alone so very late? Don't you know there are _things_ in the dark?"

When he turns around, James is gone. And then he's everywhere. He's got a hand in Remus's hair and another down the back of his trousers. There's no time to be shocked, and soon Remus is pressed against the wall, his right wrist trapped behind his back.

Remus can feel James' breath, hot and damp against his skin, and tenses from head to toe. James' nose is in his ear, and his fingers are digging into Remus's arms, which is a bit awkward, but is doesn't matter, because _this_ is unrehearsed.

"Prongs… James, I need—" _to get to bed.__To go_._To toss off and pass out_. But apparently James knows better.

_I need something to just be _real

"I know. Come on," says James quietly, gravely, and he's taking Remus's sweaty hand.

They stumble towards the stair, and nearly trip over Sirius and his conquest- both sprawled awkwardly and unconscious. Remus contemplates kicking him or at the very least leaving him naked on the common room floor, but James tugs him onward. It's very unlike James, actually- ignoring an opportunity to fuck with Sirius. He's being cautious and hesitant, but sure as ever, and a minute later they're in the dormitory.

They collapse simultaneously on the nearest bed (Sirius's, Remus thinks) and for a moment neither moves. Suddenly, there's a ripping noise and Remus feels his cock spring free from his trousers.

Something in James' eyes is fierce and primal, and Remus trembles. James is straddling his waist, undoing his own trousers and Remus feels a little lightheaded, but can't tell if it's the alcohol or the fact that James' cock is suddenly _right fucking there_. He could lean forward and lick it, and he considers doing just that.

Before he has a chance, James has wriggled downward so that they're cock to cock on the shaky bed. The curtains are open but there's nobody awake, and Remus tries not to care. A hot, damp hand encircles Remus's cock and he lets out a grunt. It's nothing like the cool, calculated handjob earlier that evening, and it's infinitely better than his own hand thrust embarrassedly down the front of his pants. This is slow and warm and deliberate.

If he didn't know better, he'd think that James was concentrating, concerned and maybe even enjoying this. But James rarely concentrates on anything, and concern is definitely not within his emotional range. A thumb slides across the tip of his cock and Remus loses his breath. It's not the alcohol this time when his head swims.

James mouth is on his and oh- _well_, now there's his tongue in Remus's mouth and it's kind of soft and doesn't feel too weird to be honest. They've never necked before or anything, but it's pretty nice and kind of mushy. It tastes like sweat and sugar, and-- _fucking hell_ what is he doing down there?

"James…"

"Shhh, s'ok. Relax."

But that's rather easier said than done, because there's something pressing its way into Remus's arse and he can't quite imagine anything feeling more bizarre. But it's kind of _nice_ as well.

"James what are-" but he stops short and lets out a noise like a_gghhh_.

James mutters something indistinct and suddenly Remus's insides feel sort of cool and liquidy, and he desperately tries to convince himself that James is most certainly not about to- but then he's gone and fucking done it. There's a burning sensation and Remus thinks for a second that James is _actually__fucking him_, only he can still feel James' cock against his, and then he realizes it's just two fingers- no, three, pushing inside him. He wonders how James thought to do that in the first place.

If kissing James should have been weird, this should be effing unreal. There's no precedent for this sort of thing, not at James and Sirius's parties, not in Remus's personal experience. He wonders if James and Sirius do this, late at night when they think everyone is asleep- but it's not a thought he really wants to be having, so Remus pushes it aside.

"Oh, Christ—"

"No need to call me that. Prongs is fine."

"Oh fuck right off."

"I'm…_trying_. You're too tense. Stop fidgeting," James whispers. It's not irritable or exasperated exactly, just a little impatient. Typical.

Remus opens his legs a little more and tries very hard to relax. Suddenly, the fingers disappear, eliciting a surprised gasp. Before there's time to complain, something wet and hot is pressing against Remus's entrance. This time he's sure it's James' cock, but it may as well be a bludger for how impossibly big it feels.

"James, I… I can't. It's too much- too…"

"You're ok. S'ok. Breathe, just _breathe_. Try to relax, it really will help," James whispers. For all the calm he's clearly trying to effect, he sounds about as scared as Remus feels, and this makes Remus feel ever so slightly better.

"You sound like you've done this before."

"Yeah, well… does it matter?"

A brick fell into Remus's stomach.

"Yes, it bloody well matters. You've done this and I… _haven't_. You've the advantage!"

"Oh shut up, it didn't count before. It didn't- it wasn't _real_."

For some reason, in that moment, Remus has never felt _less_ alone. The stupid, silly obnoxious git trying desperately to get off at his expense is saying the exact things that Remus spends most of his time drowning in Firewhiskey. And all at once, nothing could possibly be more real.

The mist of intoxication and make-believe dissolves and every nerve in Remus's body is twitching with sensation. The bed shifts, someone sighs, the air in Remus's lungs smells like dust and alcohol. It's so acute and sharp it almost hurts. It's just him and James and the strange game they're playing, but that's enough.

James looks him in the eye, and without another word Remus feels his whole being split in two- a burning, searing ache creeping through his body. For a second, he wishes he could go back to being numb and detached, but with the pain comes the undeniable sensation of being alive. And it's fucking terrifying.

A small noise like _ungghk_ issues from James' slack mouth, but neither of them moves. Deep brown eyes are searching Remus's golden ones, and if Remus didn't know better, he'd think James looked nervous. But James Potter is never nervous, and in a blink the look passes and is replaced by one that begs for permission.

"I… I…"

"Shhh… Can I—are you… is it ok?"

"I… I think… so. Yeah, just be- careful. I think it's ok… I think—"

It doesn't quite hurt anymore, but it's foreign and uncomfortable. Part of Remus wants to shove James off, but a louder part wants James, every bit of James, buried deep inside, filling him up with something tangible and undeniable. He almost _wants_ it to hurt, so that later there will be no undoing it, no pretending it didn't happen. He wants the ache to linger after the sun banishes everything else and they go back to their assigned roles.

Slowly, almost _gently_, James pushes in. Remus wills himself to relax, and it actually does help. The burning ache flares again in his stomach, but it's duller this time, and Remus bites his lip to keep from complaining. One tiny thrust, then another and Remus feels James' balls brush against him. Then they're moving.

He can't tell who started, but Remus is pushing down and tightening as James pulls back, only to slam in again and again. It starts with slow, small thrusts, but within a minute James is withdrawing nearly all the way only to sheath himself once more in a quick, certain motion. Remus bends his knees a little and someone shifts and suddenly white, burning sensation shoots up Remus's spine.

"Holymotherofbuggeringfuck!" Remus screams.

Somewhere in the room, a bed shifts and someone is awake. In a split second, James has his wand out and the curtains are closed.

"Careful there… _Remus_… Someone'll… think you're… _gay_," James whispers, and though he's trying to sound coy, it comes out all raspy and strained.

"Right… Can't have that," Remus replies dreamily.

James resumes his careless pattern of in and out, slow and then hurried, and Remus is suddenly very aware of his own body. His fingertips tingle and his toes are cold and curling against the bedsheet, and there's a lock of hair plastered to his forehead. Every breath is too much feeling to bear, and the slick, solid feel of James' hard, throbbing cock stretching and impaling him is too fucking good. He even thinks he can feel the ridges along James' prick as he slides out, though he tells himself it's impossible. James' hands are gripping Remus's waist, and James is staring down at the thin werewolf as though _he_ were the eater of men.

While his own cock aches and strains for contact, Remus can only concentrate on James- what he's doing, how he feels inside his body, the look of him as he gasps and sputters and grunts feverishly, eyes flickering about wildly. Somehow James reads his mind, because a hand wraps around Remus's leaking erection.

It's too much. One, two- five strokes and Remus feels his balls draw up painfully and he's coming. Pulse after pulse- thick, white ribbons of come- despite the fact that he'd come only hours before. For what feels like hours, Remus is nothing but a body, undone and aching and coming at James' command. He is a collection of nerves, devoid of consciousness, writhing and arching on the damp sheets. It's complete and utter surrender, with James running the show, as always. And then he's gone.

The shattering ecstasy flings him into near-unconsciousness. Every muscle in Remus's body goes slack, and he can feel James slipping in and out of him. Without much thought, Remus clenches around James' still-throbbing cock. James lets out a strangled scream and looks at Remus with pure disbelief bordering on incredulity.

"Where the fuck did you learn _that_?"

"Shut up, Prongs," Remus laughs.

But there is no need to tell James to stop talking, because seconds later he's sped up and it doesn't look like he can form words anyway. With increasingly frantic thrusts, James is pounding into Remus and coming inside him. The only sound they make is the fleshy echo of James' balls on Remus's skin and the gravelly gasps being wrenched from James' lungs. Remus tightens one last time, enjoying the way he can make James shake and lose control. After a few seconds, James collapses onto Remus's chest so hard it knocks the breath out of them both.

Neither makes an effort to move or get comfortable for several minutes. Remus can feel uncertainty and shame gathering about them like atmosphere, but he fights them off with every breath, determined to stay in this brave new reality. Determined to stay _alive_ as long as possible.

With a sickening slurp, James slides out and rolls onto his back. They lay perfectly still, side by side for years, just breathing and feeling and clinging to whatever the hell just happened. The air in the room seems to go still, as though the very elements don't want to disturb their fragile peace.

Finally, James tucks himself in and does up his trousers. Remus follows suit, trying not to groan at the twinge of pain radiating from his backside. It's uncomfortable, but it's _his_. Slowly, Remus feels his senses cloud up, and a thick fog settles over him once again. The world seems to be flying away at light speed, and there's nothing for it. He wants to scream and cry and hurt James or himself or some other stupid thing, just to keep himself there and present. But he doesn't. And James doesn't. Remus knows it's time for one of them to stumble away, mutter something about being smashed and not look back. They have to make it obvious that what just happened _never happened_.

But then something _else_ happens. Something bizarre and unexpected, so much so that Remus nearly jumps. There are fingers brushing the back of his hand, reaching into it. Fingers intertwine and someone squeezes, and then they're both squeezing and clinging and holding on for their fucking lives. It's painful, but it's perfect, and it's the only thing anchoring Remus to the world. And in the morning, when they both plead amnesia, scramble apart and laugh a bit too loudly, he'll still have James' fingernail marks carved into the back of his hand. Little red crescent moons that will keep him alive like oxygen- at least for a little while, until they all fade.


End file.
